The Creep
by GameAndWolf
Summary: When Jim breaks into 221b, he spends some time getting intimately acquainted with the personal possessions of John and Sherlock.


NC/17

He tiptoes around their flat, muttering to himself, criticizing their taste in decorations, the headphones, and what is Sherlock's obsession with skulls as decorations?

Creeping into the kitchen, he pokes through the drawers, paws through the leftovers in their fridge. He deliberately messes Sherlock's experiments on the table just enough to throw off the results. He briefly debates violating John's stash of tea, but rethinks the plan when he finds no less than two teacups with blood residue on them. Blood doesn't bother him, but it just wouldn't be fun to die from some obscure disease picked up in Sherlock Holmes's kitchen. Really, the place shouldn't be frequented with anything less than a biohazard suit.

He abandons the kitchen and creeps his way up the stairs to John's room, sweeping the camera about and tutting to himself about the miserable sense of interior decorating. He prowls over to the desk and chuckles to himself when he sees the laptop with a post-it note reading "Do not Touch. This means you, Sherlock". They are so domestic, it's so charming. He roots about in the drawer of John's desk, lifting up the gun and examining it before the camera lens.

"Shame, shame, Dr. Watson, you shouldn't have this still." He replaces the gun and makes his way to the bed. Neatly made, with all the efficiency expected of a military man. Nothing fun under the pillows or beneath the bed. Not even the bedside table, which he'd hoped would contain an exciting plethora or sex toys, holds anything interesting except for a box of condoms. He pockets them if for no other reason than to complicate the doctor's next attempt to get off with some girl.

The closet he finds much more interesting, if only because he's amazed at just how many cuddly looking jumpers a single man can own. He drops the camera onto the bed for a moment, long enough to tug his own t-shirt over his head and hang it neatly on one of the empty hangers. He takes one of the cuddly jumpers for himself, an oatmeal colored cable-knit thing that looks and feels like it may or may not be made of kittens. He pulls it over his head and wiggles a bit in its delightful warmth. It's too large on him because of the doctor's stockier frame but he bounces on his toes and takes pleasure in it anyway.

He takes up the camera again and bounces down the stairs, sniffing the air. He might sneak into Mrs. Hudson's flat before he goes and nick the pie on his way out. He loves apple pie.

But before he can even entertain thoughts of leaving, he has to stop in Sherlock's room. He pushes the door open slowly and slides the camera through the crack first, using it to check for any sort of trap before gleefully kicking the door the rest of the way open.

The room is surprisingly sparse and he can't suppress a bit of disappointment at that but he gets over it quickly. He is after all, so changeable. He flops himself down on the bed and takes in a deep shuddery breath, inhaling the smell of Sherlock from the duvet and lets out a long, low moan. Allowing himself a few moments of basking in the smell of genius, he rolls over on his back and hops up again.

The camera roams around the room, taking in the few decorations, a poster of the periodic table of elements, is that a picture of Edgar Allen Poe? Morbid thing, Sherlock is. He tugs open a drawer and wrinkles his nose in disdain. _Indexed._ The socks were indexed. With malicious glee, he thrusts one hand into the drawer and shuffles everything around with all the delicacy of a cat attempting to juggle.

That taken care of, he tugs open the door of the wardrobe and cackles with delight at the sight of all of Sherlock's neatly pressed shirts. He practically dives into the wardrobe face first and buries his face in one particularly delightful eggplant colored shirt, rubbing his cheek again the smooth material. He mentally debates, for just a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on, but he is rather deeply against the idea of abandoning his cuddly jumper.

Instead, he yanks the shirt from the hanger and tosses it onto the bed, followed by several others, until the bed is covered with a layer of the fine material. He props the camera on the end table so that it can get a full view of the bed before he stretches himself luxuriously across the bed. He rolls onto his back and kicks his socks and shoes off, quickly followed by his trousers and pants.

He writhes across the bed, naked but for the commandeered jumper, delighting in the feel of the smooth fabric of the shirts against his bare thighs. He slides one hand down between his legs. He's already hard, has been since he set foot in the flat. He's in Sherlock's personal space, invading it, _violating it,_. It's absolutely delicious.

He glances up at the camera and grins at it, wide and self-satisfied and bordering on slipping over the edge of sanity. He starts to stroke himself slowly, a low moan bubbling up from his throat as he twists his head, pushing his face into Sherlock's pillow, taking in the scent and imagining it's the detective's long, pale fingers wrapped around his cock instead of his own.

He imagines a variety of expressions on Sherlock's face, which would be best? Impressed and fascinated by someone just as intelligent as him? Submissive and needy, wanting to bring pleasure to someone who was _obviously,_ so much better, so much smarter? Or perhaps, his favorite, angry, resentful, and harsh, as Sherlock stroked the man off, knowing there'd be a bullet lodged in his doctor's brain if he didn't comply?

His breath hitches and his hips buck up into his fist. Oh yes, that was the one. Sherlock bending to his will, giving him _everything_ against his wishes. He bet he could make him do anything by threatening his flatmate, _anything_ at all, and he'd be damned if those cheekbones weren't the very definition of a face made for sucking cock. Well, he'd be damned anyway but still...

He fumbles around for a moment, grasping one of the shirts from the bed and wrapping it around his cock, hissing as the cool, silky material presses against his heated flesh. He pumps himself harder, back arching away from the bed, moaning louder now, imaging the detective's long frame folded in front of him, mouth wrapped around his cock, cold, grey eyes glaring up at him from beneath long, dark eyelashes, _hating_ him with everything he had.

He throws his arm over his face as he whimpers, the mental image driving his senses wild. The sleeve of his jumper fills his nose with the scent of the doctor and oh that's just a whole new set of fantasies right there, isn't it? He could have him too if he wanted. He slides his thumb over the leaking slit of his cock and bites down on his lower lip, hips pushing up, imaging thrusting into the doctor, running his hands over that firm, well built body. He would bet the doctor made some delicious noises in the throes of pleasure and he could just imaging fucking the man's mouth with his tongue, drinking in and swallowing every noise.

He wonders if he could have them both. That might leave him too vulnerable. He twisted his fist roughly around the head of his cock, tearing a grunt of _pleasurepain_ from him. He'd need someone to make sure they didn't over power him. Moran was always into watching. _Oh god._ Moran watching, with his rifle pointed at them while he took what he wanted from the two men.

His whole body shakes, his cock twitching in his hand as his fantasies overwhelm him, sending him over the edge and into orgasm, gasping out a loud _Sherlock!_ as he spills himself across the front of his jumper.

He lay gasping for several moments, skin tingling, too sensitive to the brush of cool air and smooth material under him, brain sinking, _drowning,_ in the combined scent of his orgasm and the clothing of the other two men.

Gradually, his mind returns, the fog dissipates and he lifts his head, frowning at the stains on the stomach of his jumper. Damn. He'd have to have that cleaned. He rolls to one side and grabs a clean shirt, wiping himself clean as best he can with it. He tosses it aside before reaching for the camera, lifting it up to his face and grinning maniacally into the lens.

"I hope you enjoyed the show, Sherlock. This is just the opening act."

He clicks the camera off and pops open the side, tugging out the small silver disk, setting it neatly on the end table where he knows Sherlock won't possibly miss it. He slides off the bed bonelessly and tugs on his clothes, humming happily to himself.

Now, about that pie…


End file.
